Lawrence Block - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 2. Whole No. 834, February 2011

The Goodmans resided in a gated community alongside current and retired executives from Walmart, Tyson Foods, and J.B. Hunt. The clubhouse was lavishly appointed and was the hub of social life among the nouveax riches who made up its membership. I was welcome here because my father was a member. Not that Daddy was rich, far from it. His membership was paid courtesy of Goodman Poultry Company. The golf course gleamed in the sun with zoysia fairways, manicured greens, and freshly raked bunkers; it certainly rivaled anything on the pro tour. I had played the course occasionally with my dad, so I knew my way around.

In the clubhouse I ingratiated myself with some society ladies who had been friends of my mother. They invited me to have lunch with them, and I was making quite a hit with the old gals. I had received offers of introduction to two single daughters before I finally steered the conversation around to Lorna Goodman. I thought I was clever enough about it. I told them that I wanted to speak with Mrs. Goodman about a memorial my sister was in charge of. It concerned the Goodmans’ youngest son Roger. Judy, my little sister, was president of the local chapter of MADD. Roger Goodman had died in a tragic car accident involving alcohol just after he finished high school. Roger was a little different, as I remember, but he was universally adored by his classmates, and was a gifted artist and sculptor. He was also a first-class drug addict. The memorial project was to be a replica of one of Roger’s sculptures that they wanted to erect in the city park.

Although two of the women chatted on enthusiastically about the memorial, I noticed the other two exchanging glances just before they excused themselves and left the table. The remaining ladies offered to go to the Goodman home to introduce me, but I declined the offer, knowing full well that Lorna Goodman was not at home.

I was convinced that I had struck out as far as gaining any clues to Lorna’s whereabouts, but as I waited for the valet to bring my car around, Alice Henning, one of the ladies from lunch who had excused herself, walked up behind me and laced an arm in mine.

“I know what you do for a living, Bradley,” she said, raising an eyebrow. I had to smile at the eyebrow. Many of the ladies who frequented this establishment couldn’t raise an eyebrow to save their soul since the advent of Botox. “It isn’t like you to suddenly want to socialize with a gaggle of old women.”

“And...” I said.

“We need to have a chat,” she said. The valet had just stepped out of my car. She turned to him and said, “You can bring it round in half an hour, Chet. This young gentleman is going to buy me a drink.”

She steered me around the outside of the main hall through a series of patios until we reached an outdoor bar by the pool. She motioned to the girl behind the bar, held up two fingers, and guided me to a table.

“I might as well ask,” she said, “did that old fool Parker Goodman put you up to this?”

“Put me up to what, Mrs. Henning?”

“Pshaw!” she said, with a limp-wristed wave of her hand. “Now you don’t want to be that way with me.”

The barmaid arrived with two martinis; it seemed to be a day when other people were choosing my drinks for me. I glanced up at the girl, trying to escape Alice’s intense gaze.

“Hello, Bradley,” she said.

“Hello, Miss Bowen.” She looked right fetching in her little bartender outfit. That red vest accentuated her generous attributes. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Well, you should come around more often,” she said. “You could fix that.”

“Now, sugar,” said Alice, “y’all can take this up later. Right now this handsome young fellow has business with me.” She leaned forward and put her hand on mine in a possessive gesture.

Karen gave me a wink and walked back to her post at the bar. The way she walked, she was expecting me to be watching. I felt obliged to meet that expectation.

“That’s enough of that,” said Alice, seeing where I was looking. “Now, answer my question, Bradley.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What were we talking about?”

“You’re good,” she said. “But dodging the question pretty well answers it. Parker sent you.”

“I don’t understand,” I tried. But it wasn’t going to work. Alice was too savvy for that, so I decided on a different approach. “I was under the impression that Mrs. Goodman was having some health issues...”

“Are you kidding me? He told you that?”

“Well?”

“That’s a damn lie!” Alice’s reaction at least told me that I was getting somewhere.

“Do you know where Lorna Goodman is?” I asked.

“I do not,” she said, taking a noisy slurp from her drink. “Parker’s just worried about that damn book.” She toyed with her olive for a moment and then said, “Let me give you some advice, honey.” She gave me a look that meant business. “You need to leave this alone.” I thought she put more emphasis on the “You” than was necessary.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What’s this book you spoke of?”

“Oh,” she said with a glance at her watch, “I’m going to miss my tee time.” She downed her martini, kissed me on the cheek, and left me sitting there with my untouched drink. I hate martinis.

“Did your date dump you?” It was Karen, cranking up an umbrella over the adjoining table.

“Looks like it,” I said. I was still watching Alice. She had joined Dee Wallace near the first tee, and they were in earnest conversation. Dee was the other one from lunch. I turned my attention to Karen Bowen. She was reaching up to untangle the umbrella from a potted palm. “What about you?” I asked.

She turned around to look at me. “What?”

“I’m feeling kind of lonely all of a sudden. And used. And dumped.”

“So what do you want from me? Another martini?”

“I don’t like martinis,” I said. “I like sweeter things.” I moved in closer.

“Poor thing,” she said. “You haven’t called me in months.” It sounded like an accusation or maybe a rebuke.

“I’m a busy guy,” I said as I slipped an arm around her waist. “I just don’t get out much anymore. No time to socialize.”

“Why, Bradley Carter, are you going to try to kiss me right here?”

“I was thinking about it. Yes.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“I am that.”

She looked around the pool deck. It was empty except for one old guy reading a newspaper and sipping a bottle of Evian. “Meet me at the outside entrance to the lockers in five minutes,” she said.

It wasn’t my first time in the ladies’ locker room at the club. Karen took me in the back way along a row of polished mahogany lockers with brass nameplates. She stuffed me into one of the changing rooms. The door didn’t go all the way to the floor, but at least it had a lock. Our little liaison lasted until Karen smoothed out her blouse and buttoned up the red waistcoat that was her uniform.

“I better get back out there,” she said. She was looking in the mirror and combing out her hair.

“No need to rush off,” I said, running my hands around her waist. I kissed her ear and put my cheek against hers. Her skin was still hot, in spite of the air conditioning.

She looked at me in the mirror and giggled as she ducked out of my grip. “You are something else, Bradley. Now let me get back to work.” She cracked the door open and looked around. “The coast is clear,” she said, stepping out into the locker room. “You better call me this weekend.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

She rolled her eyes at me and clicked the door shut.

After Karen left by the front entrance, I peeked over the top of the door and slipped out of the changing room. I walked back along the row of lockers until I came to one with Lorna Goodman’s name on it. The security at the club was topnotch, and it would have been an insult to the members to put locks on the lockers. I quickly scanned the contents, but found nothing but a sleeve of “Komen for the Cure” pink golf balls and a worn-out pair of FootJoy golf shoes. I closed the locker and was about to leave when I noticed Alice Henning’s name on one of the adjoining lockers. I opened it. Alice had left her purse in the locker, so I rifled through it. Ever since I was a little boy, I’ve been amazed by all the pockets, nooks, and crannies in a woman’s purse, and it was no different with Alice’s. The purse smelled like Chanel No. 5, reminding me of my mother’s. For a moment I thought I was looking for a pack of Doublemint. There were credit cards and a checkbook, cosmetic case, and a ton of credit-card receipts. But then I found it: Lorna’s name on a piece of club stationery with an address in Naples, Florida.